


Written in Gold Rain

by Naiesu



Series: Circus Circus [2]
Category: IT (2017), IT (2019), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Flashbacks, Gentleness, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, mostly comfort, no magic, return of the ex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2020-10-24 06:10:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20701223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naiesu/pseuds/Naiesu
Summary: The alternate ending to Detour.After Pennywise's defeat, the Losers forget all about what transpired and are thrown back into the lives they had before returning to Derry. However, Richie and Eddie decide to leave together, and are flung into a world of their own problems.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am so sorry this has taken me so long

Richie blinks up at the skies over Beverly Hills and doesn't know why he's crying.

There’s a bubble of anguish caught up in the back of his throat, and when he inhales his breath stutters around it. His chest hurts,  _ aches,  _ and he grasps at the sides of his chair, desperate for a grip of something real.

He’s at the poolside, he realizes when he sits up. The chair below him creaks, white plastic strips protesting his struggle.  _ What struggle,  _ he thinks, pulling his sunglasses down to push at his eyes with the tips of his fingers.  _ I’m not struggling. _

But he is. Richie hurts and he doesn’t remember why. A nightmare—no, a night terror. The first he’s ever had and already something he isn’t keen on experiencing again.

He sits up fully and tosses his legs over the edge of his chair, trying to get his breathing under control. The longer he sits alone the harder he seems to breathe, the easier the tears come.

_ I’m dying,  _ he thinks suddenly.  _ I’m having a heart attack and I’m dying, I’m dying—  _

_ Eddie. _

He remembers then—a flash, a blur of a memory. Drawn by childish hands into a picture he can only guess the meaning of. Hurt and pain and a flash of white with a figure in the glow. He remembers Eddie’s face, twisted up into a grimace that looked like acceptance but feels to Richie like an endless depth of grief.

Richie tenses, looking across the poolside. The chairs are empty and the water is still. The calm mocks him.

But the grill is running. Richie wouldn’t fall asleep cooking, and the food isn’t burning. Smoke billows, carried by the ocean breeze past his chair. It smells amazing.

_ Eddie,  _ he thinks again, heart kicking up a hard tattoo in his chest.  _ Where is Eddie. _

He stands, but halfway to the house the door slides open.

Eddie has a towel tossed over his shoulder, and the sunglasses on his face cover half his cheeks. They’re Richie’s glasses— meant for lounging. He looks comfortable in his swim trunks and flip flops.

He shuts the door and walks across the concrete, stopping beside the grill to set down a pair of tongs and a bottle of BBQ. Eddie lifts up the grill with an oven mitt, but when he glances over at Richie he stops.

He shuts the grill, taking a tentative step forward. “Rich?” he asks, voice soft.

Richie’s chest is still heaving, desperate for air but unable to find it. His face is wet, and somehow seeing Eddie only makes him want to cry more.  _ I need him,  _ he thinks, and he knows,  _ knows _ if he’s not touching Eddie this feeling may never go away.

Eddie pushes his sunglasses up onto his head and walks closer. “Richie, are you OK?”

No, no he’s not. He wants to tell a lie, but he’s far past that point in his life. The truth gets stuck in his throat either way, and Eddie lays his hands over Richie’s biceps, squeezing. Richie thinks maybe he’s choking.

He grasps at Eddie’s arms, hands sliding and mapping out the lines of his shoulders and neck, cupping his cheeks. He’s so real, skin warm and soft, eyes bright.

“You’re alive,” he says, meaning for it to come out reassuring, something to calm himself. But it doesn’t. It’s strained and stilted and he knows he must be choking because he feels the words get lodged in his throat. His eyes burn. “You’re alive.”

Eddie’s eyebrows furrow, eyes wide and worried. He lays his hands over Richie’s where they lay on his shoulders. “Are you OK?”

_ No, no, God no,  _ he thinks, but the words don’t come. He nods instead, clenching his jaw, and Eddie reaches out. He runs his thumb along the underside of Richie’s eye, pushing at his glasses and smearing tears over his skin.

“Richie—”

“Really,” he says, half laughter. It pops. A sob. “I’m—”

His smile wobbles, fades, and he shoves his hands under his glasses, pressing them into his eyes. His breath stutters, and he feels the tears hot against his palms. “Fuck,” he hiccups, watery.

“What happened?” Eddie asks, wrapping Richie up in his arms. His hand drags over Richie’s spine, slow. Soothing. “Did you have a nightmare?” His voice is hesitant, and Richie knows he’s thinking about what he said.  _ You’re alive. _

And although he feels stupid, ridiculous, a child after a bad dream, Eddie doesn’t act like it. He doesn’t talk like it’s trivial. It calms something in Richie.

“Y—yeah,” he says, nodding. Eddie cups a hand to the back of his head, and Richie pushes his nose into the crook of Eddie’s neck.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

Richie thinks about the terror, the panic, the grief, the surrender on Eddie’s face.  _ It felt so real. _

He purses his lips. “It’s OK,” he says, and somehow his voice doesn’t sound as weak.  _ You’re faking it _ . “I don’t remember anyway.”


	2. Part 2

It’s strange, sometimes, that Richie can’t remember things.

He knows he’s getting older, but he didn’t know he was getting  _ old.  _ Sometimes a thought flitters through his mind, teasing, and the more he tries to chase it the less there is to chase. A line of thread getting smaller and smaller, harder to hold on to. He tries to remember his childhood and it’s covered in mist. Dull untouchable memories.

If Eddie feels the same, he never mentions it. They don’t always talk about things like that—the touchy subjects. The ones that scare them in the night when they finally realize what’s there and what’s not. Ghosts.

It’s why Richie’s so desperate to avoid his own thoughts. Somehow, though, they always come to catch up with him, prodding fingers and curled smiles.  _ When did we leave Derry?  _ he wonders, digging through his mind and coming up blank.  _ Why did we come here? _

He looks at Eddie across the room, fiddling with the TV antennae and cursing under his breath, clicking his tongue when a picture flashes across the screen and is swallowed by static. Not a care in the world.

_ How did we end up here? _

Something nags at him, thoughts digging into his subconscious like pins. It hurts and he doesn’t know why.

No, there’s something. Deep, deep in the back of his mind, hidden and tucked away. He reaches for it, curious and needing to know why it’s bothering him so much.

It digs into him, sharp, and Richie remembers running, running, running through the dark. Screaming. Terrified. Grieving.

He takes a sharp breath, gripping the edges of the coffee table when his body lurches to the side, dizzy and refusing to obey. It’s just like the dream, vivid and  _ real. _

_ There must be a cause,  _ he thinks, trying to stay logical about the whole situation. Maybe he needs a therapist.  _ They’re just dreams. _

Eddie slaps the side of the TV, and Richie jumps so hard he feels his shoulders pop. “Damn this weather,” Eddie says, clicking his tongue again when the picture on the screen stays fuzzy.

Richie can barely tell what he’s watching. Maybe sports? He doesn’t care either way, isn’t interested in watching a ball get kicked around when his head is playing back night terrors every waking moment. He feels a headache forming behind his eyes, stressed.

Eddie sinks into the cushion beside him, hand resting on Richie’s back and rubbing, slow. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Richie lies, easy. Eddie furrows his eyebrows, not quite believing, and Richie sighs again, taking his glasses off and sitting them on the table. “I mean—kinda.”

“Kinda?” Eddie pushes.

It’s a new thing—being honest with each other. It’s hard, pushes Richie to be better for Eddie and Eddie to be more patient with him. He’s far better at his growth than Richie is. Sometimes he wishes he could just borrow the honesty, let his emotions run free instead of hiding them behind a quick chuckle and a half-truth. He wants to yell, to scream. Imagines how good it would feel if it would finally come out.

Richie chews on his lip, swallowing and fighting against his own throat. “No,” he chokes out finally.

“Do you wanna talk about it, or just leave it?”

It’s an easy cop out, and one that Richie’s mind latches onto and begs for him to take.  _ I don’t wanna talk about it, I don’t wanna think about it, I just wanna be here with you where everything’s OK— _

But everything’s not OK. They say talking about dreams makes them less real, hearing the words out loud makes the little discrepancies seep from the woodwork until it’s obvious it wasn’t real life. Opens Richie up to Eddie potentially taking his hand and offering whatever comfort he can. That’s what Richie wants.

He takes a breath, gathering himself, and calms when Eddie slides his hand up the back of Richie’s shirt so they’re skin to skin.

“I—” he starts, quick with all the energy in his chest, but cuts himself off when he sees the picture on the TV finally come in somewhat clear.

He sees his name first in the news report, and anxiety wells in his stomach, making him shake. Eddie’s name next, sliding across the screen slow so everyone can read it. The reporter looks shocked, eyes wide with disbelief, and Richie is both thankful and not that the sound isn’t coming in.

Myra is standing at the forefront, surrounded by family members and strangers desperate to have something new to gossip about, to tell their families they’re on TV. The reporter has the microphone held out, hand tight around it.

Myra is flushes, eyes wet and skin flushed, looking devastated and livid in equal amounts as she yells into the receiver. Eddie’s fingers dig into the skin of Richie’s back, nails welting, he’s sure. He can hardly feel it.

The last word of text slides across the screen, and somehow this one feels like it takes longer than the rest combined.

_ ‘Homosexual Relationship?’ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoying the story and want chapters to come faster? come knocking at my door at [naiesu_s](twitter.com/naiesu_s) on twitter and kick me back into action! taking requests as well!!


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